The Art of Death

by David Fennell

  Jordan beamed at her. He didn’t know the song but liked the idea of being strong and fearless like a lion. She hugged him and then she and dad and a waitress sang ‘Happy Birthday’.

  His eyes well, despite feeling bone dry, and two tiny tears, the last of his moisture, squeeze through the roots of his lashes. He lifts his free hand and gently tries to scoop the sap to his mouth. His fingers are grubby and all he can taste is salt.

  He tries to refocus his mind back to his birthday, but the strip light begins to fizzle and flicker off and on, off and on. It makes his head spin and for a moment he feels he might puke, and to his relief, he doesn’t. Within moments the light gives up and the entire room is plunged into darkness.

  Jordan lies still, lost and small in the blackness. He wants so much to return to his ninth birthday but the feelings it’s brought up have wiped him out. He closes his eyes and within moments falls into a restless sleep.

  In his dream he hears someone call his name.

  ‘Hey, Jordan!’ says the voice, louder this time.

  Jordan looks up. The light is working and the room is bright again. He slowly pushes himself into a sitting position and scans the room but doesn’t see anyone.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘I’m over here.’

  Jordan follows the sound of the voice but all he sees is the thing in the tank. Bubbles appear at the mouth of the mask and float upwards to the thing’s foot. The eye is no longer pale, it’s a clear blue and peering directly at him.

  ‘Hello, mate,’ says the thing.

  Jordan jolts backward, sliding against the wall.

  ‘We need to talk,’ it says.

  Jordan puts his hands to his ears and shuts his eyes.

  ‘Well, that’s not very nice,’ says the thing.

  ‘Shut up!’

  Despite covering his ears he can still hear the voice loud and clear. His heart is pounding and he feels his head swimming.

  ‘Are you feeling OK, mate?’

  Jordan takes three deep breaths.

  He opens his eyes and lets his hands drop heavily on to his lap. The thing has somehow freed an arm and is trying its best to wave at him from within the confines of the tank.

  Jordan is frozen, unable to speak, but after a moment he digs up the courage and says, ‘How can you talk?’

  ‘How can you talk?’ the thing replies.

  Jordan has no answer to that.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asks.

  ‘You know who I am. You just haven’t figured it out yet.’

  Jordan looks at the ripped denim and the eagle tattoo. He has seen them before. But where? He thinks back and a moment later it comes to him. He saw them on his mum’s Facebook. ‘You’re Ben Peters.’

  ‘Ten points, Sherlock.’

  ‘But I thought you were him . . .’

  ‘By him do you mean the bloke that chained you up and took paedo photos of you? The same bloke who—’

  ‘Stop! Don’t say it.’

  ‘He hurt your mum, Jordan. He hurt her bad.’

  Jordan feels hollow inside. After a moment he asks, ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘What do you think happened to me?’

  ‘Did he do that to you?’

  ‘Yes, he did, and he’ll do it to you too.’

  Jordan feels his stomach lurching. The thought of ending up a thing in a tank terrifies him. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Because he’s demented.’

  Jordan feels his chest tighten. ‘My mum . . .’

  ‘I know, mate. I’m sorry.’

  Jordan draws in his knees and hugs them close to his chest.

  ‘We need a plan, Jordan. We need to get out of here.’

  ‘And how do we do that? I’m chained up and you’re floating upside down in a tank.’

  ‘Yeah, there is that. But that doesn’t mean it’s not possible, does it?’

  Jordan shrugs.

  ‘I can’t get out of this glass prison so it’s up to you to save us.’

  Jordan holds up his sore and sticky shackled wrist. ‘I’ve tried!’

  ‘Then shout as loud as you can.’

  Jordan sighs heavily. ‘I’ve tried that too but my voice—’

  ‘If you can’t shout then make a noise! Any noise, just make it loud!’

  The light begins to flicker.

  ‘It’s up to you, little lion man. Save us. Please.’

  The flickering stops and the room becomes dark once more.

  Jordan blinks his eyes open to the darkness. His head feels woozy and his body shakes with cold and pain. He thinks he hears the rumbling of an engine which disappears as quickly as it arrived.

  He calls for Ben, but his voice is like an old dog’s bark.

  He listens, but Ben doesn’t respond. Instead he flinches at the sound of a door slamming closed upstairs.

  49

  A

  RCHER IS DRIVING NORTH WITH Klara on speaker phone.

  ‘Where is it now, Klara?’

  It has just stopped on Swains Lane in Highgate. Doesn’t seem to be moving.’

  ‘Could you connect to the public CCTV and see what you can find?’

  ‘I’ll get on it right away.’

  ‘It’s the killer, Klara. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘What about Merrick?’

  ‘He’s involved somehow but he’s not our man.’

  ‘An accomplice?’

  ‘Possibly. Please keep trying Quinn and tell him I’m on my way to Highgate. Let me know as soon as you can what you find on the CCTV.’

  ‘Roger that!’

  Archer steps on the accelerator and takes every shortcut she knows through bus lanes and red lights. The traffic is frustratingly heavy but within five minutes she is on the A5200 on her way to Highgate.

  The last time Archer was in Swains Lane was for a school trip to Highgate Cemetery. That seemed like a lifetime ago. Swains Lane divides the East Cemetery from the West Cemetery. It is a steep and narrow road with high walls on either side. She drives slowly up the lane, her eyes scanning for anything or anyone that might seem out of place.

  Archer’s phone rings. It’s Klara.

  She puts her on speaker.

  ‘What have you got?’ she asks, as she drives up the hill.

  ‘Nothing much on CCTV yet. But the car stopped about halfway up Swains Lane. It seemed to be inside a block of some sort.’

  Archer slows. To her left she sees the front of a modern house. The top floor seems to be entirely made from glass and overlooks the west side of the cemetery. Victoria said Jamie lived near a cemetery. Is this his house?

  ‘Klara, I think this is Jamie’s house.’

  Archer signals to the right and pulls over, half mounting the pavement.

  ‘I’m here now. I’m going in. Did you get hold of Quinn?’

  ‘He’s not picking up. I’ll try again. Might be best to wait for backup, Grace.’

  ‘Jamie’s in there. He could be in danger.’

  ‘OK. I’ll call Quinn again. Be careful.’

  Archer gets out of the car. Swains Lane is peaceful with the occasional car rolling by. An ambitious cyclist in colourful lycra battles his way up the impossibly steep lane as Archer walks toward the house and rings the bell.

  There is still no answer to the doorbell when Archer presses the button a third time. She glances up and down the street, suddenly aware that it’s eerily quiet. She recalls the stories of ghost sightings in the area. Mysterious grey figures drifting from the East Cemetery, across Swains Lane, to the West Cemetery. She doesn’t believe in ghosts, but still the unsettling memory of hearing these stories when she was younger makes her shiver.

  She shakes them from her mind and peers through the small mottled glass pane set within the front door, but there is nothing or no one to see.

  She takes four steps back and stands on the roadside looking up at the glass walls of the second floor.

  She has the sense that someone is watching her.


  For a second she thinks she sees movement. A fleeting shadow lurking in the gloomy interior. Is she imagining it? Her spine ices over.

  She glances at her phone and wonders if Klara has got word to Quinn and Hicks.

  A car approaches and she moves back onto the pavement. As it disappears she hears footfalls. Someone is descending a staircase.

  Her mouth dries as a figure looms behind the mottled glass pane.

  The door opens.

  ‘Grace! What are you doing here?’ Jamie Blackwell is standing in the doorway with a look of surprise and confusion on his face. His eyes are in better condition, however the whites are still scarlet. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  Archer looks up and down the street and, satisfied there is no one watching, pushes her way inside and closes the door behind her. ‘I’ve been looking for you. You left the hospital without letting me know.’

  ‘I was feeling quite well.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that. The killer is still out there. He hasn’t finished with you.’

  He smiles.

  Archer frowns at him. ‘This is no joke, Jamie.’

  ‘Let’s go in,’ he says.

  She hears classical music playing upstairs, hesitates and is unsure why.

  Her skin begins to tingle.

  ‘Are you alone?’ she asks.

  ‘Just me. How about you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How on earth did you find me?’

  Archer is distracted by the interior. Looking up the staircase, she can see the light from the sky outside. How odd it must be to live in a glass box, she thinks.

  A glass box.

  Jamie locks the front door.

  ‘Would you like a drink? Tea, coffee or something stronger?’

  He leads her away from the staircase and into a large kitchen, which she notices connects via a door to the garage.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Just water, thank you.’

  The kitchen is modern to the point of being space-age. Light shimmers from the immaculate stainless-steel worktops and appliances. At one end a glass wall overlooks the West Cemetery.

  Jamie lives in a glass box alongside the dead.

  Jamie opens an immense steel refrigerator and takes out a small bottle of Evian. He smiles as he twists the cap and hands the bottle across.

  ‘Aren’t you having one?’ she asks.

  He shakes his head.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ he says.

  Archer’s hand tightens around the plastic bottle.

  ‘We have a lead on the killer.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. Oliver Merrick. Has a string of paedophile offences. The team are rounding him up now.’

  ‘That’s great. And you think he is the culprit?’

  Archer’s mouth is dry. She takes a swig of the cold water.

  ‘No. I don’t.’

  Jamie folds his arms. ‘I see. Why is that?’

  Archer takes out her phone. ‘One of the killer’s burner phones was activated not long ago. We traced it to this location.’

  ‘You think Oliver Merrick is here for me?’

  Archer swallows and takes out her phone. She still has the number of the burner phone stored on it. She calls it.

  Jamie’s eyes flicker to her phone.

  Archer dials the number.

  Silence as the call connects.

  From inside the garage she hears the phone ringing.

  Their eyes lock.

  His red eyes flare and in that instant, she sees him for what he is.

  Her heart jumps. She has been in the lair of a monster before. She knows that she has to do something quickly. But before she can do anything he charges at her and slams her head against the wall. She grunts and stumbles sideways, reaching for the worktop as the glittering kitchen begins to swim. She wants to run like she did from Bernard Morrice all those years ago. But she has no strength, she feels herself falling and then loses consciousness.

  50

  D

  ESPITE HIS WEAK, ACHING BODY Jordan forces himself to a sitting position and listens as footsteps move with a purpose across the ceiling. Back and forth, back and forth. He trembles and wonders if it’s the man. It has to be, but perhaps, just perhaps, it’s someone else. Someone good, someone kind.

  He tries to call out but his voice is little more than a croak.

  He hears music. Classical music. He recalls Ben said something to him in his dream, but his thoughts are jumbled as he tries to remember.

  He can’t think what it was.

  Moments pass, he isn’t sure how long. It could have been five minutes or an hour. Or a day.

  The music is still playing and he can hear faint voices. A man’s voice. A woman’s too.

  ‘Mum? No, she’s . . .’ He can’t bring himself to say it.

  He feels his heart racing. Perhaps if he stands and climbs up the steps a little bit he’ll be closer to the door and they will hear him. He tries to pull himself up but his grip is too weak and he falls to knees. The iron band around his wrist clangs and echoes on the steel bannister. It’s then that remembers what Ben told him.

  ‘If you can’t shout then make a noise! Any noise, just make it loud!’

  Jordan lifts his arm and begins to clang the iron band on the bannister. It stings his wrist and he feels the blisters opening again, but he doesn’t care.

  He clangs over and over again until he fires up inside and doesn’t stop.

  51

  A

  RCHER WAKES TO THE SOUND of running water and a distant repetitive tapping noise.

  Her eyes blink and she struggles to clear her vision. She is lying on what feels like cold steel. Her face and the side of her head feel sticky and warm.

  The smell of formaldehyde fills her nostrils. In seconds it all comes flooding back to her.

  Her eyes snap open.

  She tries to focus but her head pounds. Her hands and feet are bound with plastic tie wraps. She stares at her limbs in disbelief. She has been stripped to her underwear. Her stomach lurches and she feels her anger begin to bubble.

  She sits up and feels the ground beneath her wobble. But it’s not ground. She is on top of a gurney.

  Terror swarms through her.

  Her eyes scan the room. More stainless-steel cabinets and a sink. It’s like a morgue. But more disturbing than that is the coffin-sized vitrine, with a hose hooked over the side, slowly filling with liquid.

  Her skin erupts in goose bumps.

  The tapping noise is still present. It echoes through her pounding head.

  She needs to act and wonders where her things are. Her phone should still be in the house somewhere and she prays that Klara and Quinn have tracked her location.

  She hears a key turning and a door creaking open.

  Looking towards the sound, she sees the green of rubber boots and a protective suit descend a short wooden staircase.

  Jamie smiles at her. ‘You’re awake. That’s good. No need to cry out, Grace. No one can hear us down here.’ He gestures around the room. ‘Soundproofing.’ He smells the air, his eyes close and he smiles as if he is taking in a vintage wine. ‘I adore the smell of formaldehyde. Don’t you? So sweet . . . so practical . . . although I prefer to think of it as magical. Time ceases with it, decay is halted and beauty is preserved.’

  Despite her anger, Archer trembles inside.

  ‘What are you doing, Jamie? This is crazy. Please, you’ve got to stop.’

  He ignores her and removes a white plastic bottle with a red cap from one of the cabinets.

  More formaldehyde.

  ‘Need a top-up,’ he says brightly, unscrewing the cap and pouring the solution into the vitrine, which is almost full.

  ‘You don’t have to do this, Jamie. We can work something out.’

  He uses a large plastic paddle to stir the solution around the vitrine.

  ‘I was genuinely surprised to see you at my
door. I own this property, however I’m not registered at this address. Someone else is. Someone rich who spends a lot of time abroad. Fake, of course. So, it was quite a shock to learn you had found me here. I was delighted too. Some might call it serendipity. Because you know, Grace, this was meant to be. This is your destiny.’

  Archer tries to wriggle from her bonds but the plastic is tight and cuts into her skin.

  ‘Don’t do that, Grace. I don’t want the goods damaged. It will ruin the exhibit.’

  Archer shudders.

  ‘I figured out how you found me. It seems that treacherous snake, Merrick, switched on the burner phone before he died. Always best to work alone. I realise that now.’

  ‘The police will trace the phone.’

  ‘Yes, they will, and your phone too. However, both devices have been secreted in the back of the cemetery gardener’s truck and are making their way out of the city as we speak. Ingenious, no?’

  Archer’s heart sinks and to make matters worse she hears muffled police sirens in the distance.

  ‘There they go,’ quips Jamie.

  ‘They’ll come back.’

  ‘Possibly. But the resident of chez Blackwell is away on business.’

  Archer notices the tapping sound has begun to slow to the pace of a metronome.

  Jamie switches off the water. He removes his gloves and approaches her.

  ‘You’re so beautiful, Grace.’ His hand brushes the bloody side of her head and she flinches.

  ‘We need to fix you up.’

  He pushes the trolley gently toward the sink and looms over her.

  ‘Lie back, please. I need to wash your hair.’

  Archer tries to roll from the trolley but Jamie gently pulls her back. ‘We have precious little time together, Grace. Don’t make me crush that beautiful neck before I need to.’

  Archer realises there is no point in aggravating him. Any time she can buy is time she might be able to use to her advantage.

  He smiles. ‘Your eyes. One emerald. One sapphire, like Jake said. You’re quite something, Grace.’

  She grits her teeth. ‘You pushed him over. You hurt him on purpose, didn’t you?’

  ‘I do what I have to do for my art, Grace.’

  He helps her slide across to the sink. She lowers her head onto the cold steel sink as he runs the water. She wonders if she can swing round and slam his ribs, but her feet are bound and she won’t get anywhere by hopping. He keeps filling a glass beaker with warm water and pouring it over her head, washing away the blood. He uses an odourless hand soap to shampoo and massage her head. She winces at the sting from her cut.